


The Wolf's In Your Bed

by cedarcliffe



Series: Outside the Door [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, F/M, Incest, M/M, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarcliffe/pseuds/cedarcliffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This part of Dean is so much easier to satisfy than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wolf's In Your Bed

The first time it happened it was practically an accident.

Dean tells Sam this sometimes, when he’s flying high on a rush of drink or drug or sex or blood or all of the above and smoke twists a black tear against a sky paling slowly to grey. He whispers it into the curve of his ear, smiling like he has a mouthful of needles instead of teeth, pressing his trigger callus over the the delicate horseshoe of Sam’s hyoid bone so he can feel every leap and twitch of Sam’s throat, every thin breath.

”An accident?” Sam asks, and he tilts his face towards the sound of Dean’s voice while Dean twists around to kiss him like he always does. It’s not a game anymore, it’s a routine, and Sam will offer freely what Dean would just as happily take and together they’ll go through the motions of something meaningful, because he’s heard this story and he knows this role and he’s content to play it. This part of Dean is so much easier to satisfy than others.

“That’s what I said,” Dean nods, chin hooking on Sam’s shoulder, chest and belly pressing snug to his back, one hand laying flat over his stomach and the other fitting around his hip like every fingertip is just succumbing to the natural tug of invisible magnets. He sways them gently, rocking forward and back on his heels with Sam held tight and close, both of them listening to the distant whine of sirens over the hisscracklepop of the fire as it devours their corner room and begins to lick hungrily at the neighbors. Light and searing heat plays over their faces. Dean’s breath scuds humid across Sam’s cheek.

“Her name was Lydia,” he says. “She had yellow hair.”

 

\--

 

There’s a police car chasing them. It blares a perpetual scream, the backs of their heads flashing red and blue.

Dean seems to find this hilarious. He’s whooping and laughing with one hand on the wheel and the other out the window, pearl-handled colt pointed towards the sky and going off in uneven firecracker blasts of sound. Sam’s braced against the dash, stiff-armed, thin-lipped. He wants to scream at Dean to go faster, to stop fucking around and just fucking _drive_ , damnit, they’re gonna fucking _shoot_ us, gonna fucking shoot our _girl_ , but Dean can’t be talked down when he’s wound up like this, all mad joy and adrenaline, so Sam just grits his teeth and tries to make himself small. The impala can outrun this small-town piece-of-shit tin-can cop car any day. Sam knows that like he knows a cougar can kill a child. Dean will have his fun, will fire clips into the sky while he bays at the sun, and then they’ll take off with down the endless black asphalt never to come back, leave the police to chase down their dustdevils as much as they like.

The colt clicks empty. Dean tosses it into the backseat with a snort and glances over at Sam. His eyes are glasspoint sharp, fever bright, edged with bleeding happiness.

“It was her perfume that did it,” Dean tells him, and Sam knows that’s at least partly true because Dean always says it with the petulant edge of an excuse. Not my fault. Not my fault. Not _all_ my fault. It would never have happened otherwise, I was _seduced_.

It was practically an accident.

“What did it smell like, Dean?” Sam asks, tags his name on the end to bring him back from the precipice he always seems to toe when they get to this part.

“Smelled like smoke,” Dean answers, and his eyes swing back to the road and his whole body jerks when he slams on the gas. The impala roars as she surges forward, her engine the wild, rattling snarl of a half-tamed beast beneath them, bone-deep, huff of coal-black exhaust shredding to nothing as the police car tears through it behind them. It’s already small, faraway, rapidly becoming inconsequential.

“Smelled like smoke, Sammy.

“Smelled like fire.”

 

\--

 

“I was sixteen,” he murmurs into the nape of Sam’s neck, like it hasn’t been three hours and two hundred miles and a new town, a new state. Dean’s wrist tastes of soot and salt clamped between Sam’s teeth, and when he leans close over his back, nosing at his cheekbone, Sam can smell his hair; a little bit like pall mall menthols, a little bit like gillette shampoo. Mostly he smells like sweat and butane and blood, like fear and death and excitement, like his brother, like Dean, and they both need to shower but there are more important things than cleanliness and honestly Sam hasn’t been clean for years now anyway.

“Sixteen,” Dean pants. Sam rolls onto his back and Dean flows over him like a wave, hips and mouths snugging together just for a second, just long enough for Sam to capture the stale, ash-chalky flavor of Dean’s tongue before he arches back, weight settling over Sam’s hips. “She must’ve been about twenty five, maybe older. Don’t know. Never asked. Just picked her up at that hole-in-the-wall in Decatur.”

“What’d you do then, Dean?” Twisting, gasping. “What then?”

“I fucked her,” Dean thumbs the words off of Sam’s shoulder, pushes his fingers into Sam’s hair and smiles softly, almost fondly. “She squealed like a pig. Sucked cock like a professional, though. All sloppy, none of that coy kitten bullshit some chicks like to pull, no. This bitch blew me like it was her last act on earth.” He laughs, runs his tongue over his teeth.

“What then?”

“Then I gutted her,” Dean snorts, like, _obviously_.

 

\--

 

Thing is, it’s not true.

Some of it might be true, some of it has to be true, because somewhere, sometime, there was that first girl, and Sam doesn’t doubt she was light-eyed and fair-haired and that Dean salted and burned her corpse behind him. But he doesn’t believe it happened in Decatur, or that her name was Lydia, or even that he was sixteen. He doesn’t believe that she wore smoke-scented perfume, or that _she_ picked _him_ up, as the story goes. He doesn’t even believe they fucked, not really, not all the time. Something about the way Dean closes his eyes.

But Dean keeps telling the story. Keeps telling it different each time. Madeline in Cambridge, one day. Wendy in Kentucky the next. In an alley, in a park, in an apartment. She fucked him, she blew him, she took it up the ass. She was ugly when she died, and then she was ash, and then it didn’t matter.

Lie after lie after lie.

Sam knows what Dean looks like when he’s spilling blood. When a life is going out in his hands. Knows that this dismissive, dry humor is a thin front, laced with cracks. That somewhere beneath it something is waiting, something ugly and beautiful and monstrous and human but mostly just Dean, just his brother Dean, and Sam thinks sometimes that if he can just get inside he’ll have him, he’ll be able to keep him. Dean. His Dean.

 

\--

 

There was this game they used to play when they were kids. Sam remembers.

Early fall. A hunt. A _long_ hunt. More of a chase. Countless state lines crossed to the steady thrum of the impala’s engine and their father’s tapes, playing first Zeppelin, then CCR, then Jethro Tull, then nothing at all. Hours upon hours upon hours of driving and nothing to do in the time in-between but play cards, listen to dad sleep, keep an eye out for Evil Sons’a Bitches.

And then one night Dean lured him out of the warm, snug darkness of the impala’s back seat. He promised something fun. That alone wouldn’t have been enough to pique Sam’s interest — even at six he could be stubborn and contrary when it was cold outside — but then Dean wouldn’t tell him what this fun something was, just gave him a placid Mona Lisa smile and shrugged, and _ugh_ , what a _jerk_ , Sam hated him and his stupid face, hated that Dean knew, as well as he did, that Sam just could not stand not knowing.

He ended up trailing after his brother into a copse of pine trees with a sour, pinched look on his face that settled uncomfortably somewhere between petulance and intrigue. The fallen needles were cool and dry and dead beneath their feet, crunching under every step and sticking to their socks, dim moonlight turning them a dull, mulched grey. Behind them, the impala was a lean, gleaming shape in the night, chrome liquid silver and her frame melting into the sky, becoming more indistinct as Dean led them further away from the road, like a mirage.

It was under the cover of forest and darkness that Dean turned around, took hold of Sam’s shoulders, and whispered into his ear, _Look up_.

Sam did.

Above them, framed by a circle of reaching, thick pines, the sky was a snatch of stars in a jagged black frame. Glittering, actually _glittering_. Standing out so clear from the surrounding dark, seeming so close, like he he could reach up and brush his fingers through them, have them come away lit up and sparkling. Sam blinked up, mouth slack, and then Dean was pushing him, pulling him, spinning him in circles and saying, _Don’t look down, don’t look down, Sammy_ , and he was whirling, and giggling, and when Dean’s hands fell away he kept going, face tilted upward, eyes wide, trained on the stars that wheeled and twirled above him, around and around and around and around until he felt the ground begin to lurch up behind him and the sky started to suck him in, spiraling upwards and upwards and—

_Sammy_ , Dean said, and Sam looked down and promptly fell onto his back with a surprised whuff, blinking and half blind and not quite sure what had happened, everything swaying around him, vision spinning continuously with dim, fading ripples of light.

Dean called it getting star-drunk. Spinning until you spun out control, and then spinning some more, spinning and spinning and spinning until one startled the other out of it, shouting out or grabbing hold, tipping drunkenly on unsteady feet. That became a game too, seeing each time if they would save each other or if they would fall, grasping at one another’s arms and faces and clinging together while all around them the world slipped sideways.


End file.
